


what remains

by isostatic



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Roller Coaster, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28576221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isostatic/pseuds/isostatic
Summary: ‘I’ll keep her safe.’ That’s what Flip had promised his dying partner as he bled out in his arms. That no matter what happened, he’d look after his wife when he was gone. And in the first few months after his death, it’s easy for Flip to convince himself it’s that promise that keeps him coming over to your home, your face in his thoughts. But as time passes on and the lines between needing and wanting begin to blur, he is sure of only one thing: he needs you just as much as you need him.
Relationships: Flip Zimmerman/Original Female Character(s), Flip Zimmerman/Reader, Flip Zimmerman/You
Comments: 18
Kudos: 21





	1. left behind

**Author's Note:**

> TW// grief, mourning, loss, death

The soft tune of music is just audible above the rattle of the Camaro’s engine, parked up on a backstreet of Colorado Springs. The sun has long since set, a sheet of black sky taking its place instead. Few people mill in and out of the buildings across the street, back entrances of restaurants and stores lined with garbage bins. Two abandoned coffee cups sit by side in the Camaro’s cup holder, separating the driver and his passenger, their eyes both fixed on the rear-view mirror.

“Tell me why I gotta bad feeling about this Flip.” Ray’s gruff voice breaks the quiet.

“You’ve always got a bad feeling when it comes to Johnson.” Flip answers dryly, eyes not moving from the mirror.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the purpose of an informant to _inform_? This guy’s done nothing but waste our damn time for the past month.” Ray takes his frustration out on the glovebox, rifles loudly amongst its contents as he searches for a pack of cigars.

He pulls two out, offers one to Flip and sticks the other between his lips. There’s a pack of camels in Flip’s back pocket, but he accepts the cigar anyway. They hadn’t done a stakeout without smoking a Maduro in almost three years. When Flip next speaks, his words are hidden behind a cloud of smoke.

“Well he’ll be thinking twice about wasting our time tonight, considering you busted the poor bastard’s jaw wide open last time.” He rolls the window down to let his arm hang slack against the car door.

Ray chooses to ignore the comment, keeps his eyes on the doorway reflected in the mirror where their informant would be passing through any minute. The bruises across his knuckles had just about healed. Though he wasn’t proud of the outburst, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. Their informant was a criminal, after all.

“Don’t think the Chief will turn a blind eye to that shit twice neither, so you better hope Johnson sings like a fuckin’ canary tonight.” Flip warns. “For your sake.”

He does meet his partners eyes then, a seriousness to his dark furrowed brow. His brown eyes are barely visible in the darkness of the car, but Ray knows there’s as much of a warning behind them as there was a plea. Flip was a patient enough man, but Ray knew better than to push his luck with him. There were only a few men at the station he didn’t fancy his chances with, and Flip was right at the top of that list.

“Yeah yeah, I hear you.” Ray dismisses, breathing smoke out through his nostrils. “I just hope the asshole doesn’t keep us waiting, I told the wife I’d be home by midnight.” 

“She still wait up for you?”

“Every night since the Millhouse bust. You know she still hasn’t forgiven me for that?”

They’d waited almost four hours for a sighting of their target in the winter night, back before he’d got the heating fixed on his old truck. By the time they were ready to go, Flip could barely feel his fingers clasp around the door handle.

“I’m not surprised.” Flip huffs. “You almost got yourself killed.”

Something must have spooked the target, because he’d changed his normal route, disappeared down a back alley instead of entering the building they’d spent weeks casing. Ray was on him in seconds, ignoring the pleas of his more cautious partner that he could have been running straight into a trap. By the time the first shot rang out, Flip had lost sight of them both. He still remembered fighting against his instincts to sprint blind into the darkness, reminding himself to keep his breath steady, footsteps quiet, handgun raised. After all, there was no way to tell who had been on the receiving end of the bullet. One wrong shot from him could have sealed his partner’s fate for good. He still counted his blessings it hadn’t come to that.

“The earful I got back from the hospital made being shot look like a walk in the damn park.” Ray’s voice is deadly serious as he gestures towards Flip with his cigar, earning a hearty laugh in response.

“It’s only cause she cares so damn much. And besides, you deserved it.”

It was another five hours by the time they’d processed the arrest, visited the hospital, and wound up back outside Ray’s home. Flip had watched from the car as he’d hobbled his way toward the door, the morning’s sunrise bathing him in an orange glow. Even from the car, Flip had heard every word out of his wife’s mouth, was sure he’d even made out the sound of the slap she’d thrown his way when she opened the door to find him bandaged and bruised almost 10 hours after he said he’d be first home.

“Maybe you’re right…” Ray admits thoughtfully. “You know, she wanted to wait a little longer before we shared the news but… we’re expecting. Had our first scan last week. The baby’ll be here this fall.”

“You’re serious?” Flip’s brows rise up onto his wrinkled forehead, the amusement and shock pitching his voice higher than usual. “ _You’re_ going to be a father?!”

He looks at the man sat across from him, barely blinking. Ray was his best friend in the world, sure, but he was one of the most reckless and irresponsible men Flip had ever known. He’d have a hell of a lot of growing up to do before he could raise his own child. He tries to imagine him as a father, a baby cradled carefully in arm, swaddled in soft blankets and cooing softly. The image doesn’t quite come to mind. He’d have to see it to believe it.

“Hell yeah I am.” Ray laughs, partly at his partner’s reaction and partly with the euphoria of hearing those words out loud for the first time.

“Holy shit, congratulations man.” Flip claps a hand down on the other man’s shoulder, feels the leather ridge of the gun holster beneath his jacket. “That’s great news. I’m happy for you both.”

The smile lingers on Flip’s face as he admires Ray’s sandy blonde hair and wide grin. His face may have been clean shaven this morning, though there’s a light stubble across his chin now. Only on days-long stakeouts had Flip ever seen him with full facial hair, opting instead to keep it short at the wish of his wife. The other detectives often joked it made him look like a child, Baby-Face Ray they called him sometimes, but he insisted it was worth it to keep her happy. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to keep a smile on her face. Perhaps taking responsibility and fathering their child was be part of that.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to meet the little guy.” Ray sighs contently. “Anyway… ain’t it about time you got started on a family of your own? Settled down with somebody that cares about you?”

Flip chuckles once humourlessly, he thought he had escaped this topic of conversation for tonight.

“C’mon Ray, we’ve been over this. I’m not the type, you know that.” He takes a long drag of his cigar, puffs the smoke out in a hoop that travels towards the windscreen before dissipating into the air. “Besides, I got you. You care about me, right?”

Ray lets out a single dry chuckle, a puff of smoke accompanying the noise.

“Well I ain’t gonna keep you warm at night, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good.” Flip huffs.

He was the only bachelor left in the Narcotics department; the only man free to choose who he shared his bed with each night. And boy, did he take joy in exercising that right. There were times when he’d show up to work in last night’s clothes, a fresh set of scratches on his back hidden behind his shirt collar. Ray had even found a stray pair of panties in the back seat of his car once. It was not getting women that Flip struggled with, it was holding onto them.

“What about you and Lindsay, you two had a good thing going… maybe you should give it another shot.”

Flip clenches his jaw, stubs out his cigar against the car door and tosses it down the street. He doesn’t need to dignify Ray’s comment with an answer, the stare he gives him from the driver’s seat says everything he needs to. Ray’s had his ass handed to him one too many times by his partner to press the topic any further, and instead returns to smoking the reminder of his cigar in a silence less comfortable than the last.

After a few minutes, Flip perks up, straightens his posture to eye the approaching figure in the rear-view mirror.

“I think that’s our guy.”

“He’s early.” Ray notes, an intonation of surprise in his voice.

The informant enters through the back door of the pool parlour, disappearing out of view. Ray takes his handgun out of the glovebox and slips it into his holster, adjusting his jacket to conceal the weapon as they prepare to venture inside. Flip eyes him carefully, hopes he’ll keep his cool this time around. He didn’t have the energy to manage both his partner and Johnson. The brisk night air shakes them free of any fatigue that may have settled on them in the car, leaves them fresh faced for their meeting. The heavy back door of the building creaks under Flip’s grasp, old metal whining with the motion.

“Johnson. Always good to see you again.” Ray’s smug voice booms around the dark, musty room. “I see you’re healing up well.”

Flip shoots him a look, but he doesn’t see it, face angled towards their guest. Johnson is more of a beard than he is a man, very few parts of his face not coated with bushy dark hair. He’s shorter than the two men and skinnier by a mile, with a skittish, somewhat sickly look that most men in his profession possess, borne from too much reliance on their own product to understand the difference between business and addiction. There’s a fist-shaped smudge of yellow-green skin around his right eye, a reminder of his last run in with the detectives.

“Why don’t we cut the bullshit and get straight to the point.” Johnson snaps.

“Sounds good to me.” Flip remarks, meeting Ray’s eye with a stern stare. “Tell us what you know about Donello’s movements. We’re hearing he’s moving people upstate from El Paso. What’s that all about?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Johnson’s thick brows crinkle above his widening eyes as he paces around the old pool tables, aged floorboards creaking beneath his feet.

“It’s our job to ask the questions. You answer them. Why is he moving people out of El Paso?” Ray reinforces the question, folding his arms across his chest from his position behind Flip.

“There were rumours about a raid. I don’t know how word got out but he’s worried… suspicious even. There’s talk of slowing down the supply for a while, laying low.” Johnson grimaces, as if he’s having to physically force the next works to come out of his mouth. “He knows someone’s been talking to the feds. I think they’re closing in on me, I think they know I’m—"

“They don’t know it’s you.” Flip interjects, extending a hand to gesture him to calm down.

“How the hell do you know that?!”

“Because if they did, you’d be dead already.” Ray’s voice is firm.

Ray does catch the look Flip sends him that time, in all its scorning glory. He raises his hands, turns around instead to pick up one of the abandoned pool balls from the table.

“What he means is—” Flip starts.

“I’m fucked, that’s what it means.” Johnson snaps.

“That’s not true.”

“Oh really, how’d you work that one out? If I don’t give you information, you arrest me and his goons get to me in jail. If you don’t catch him soon, he finds out and he kills me out here instead. How _exactly_ is that not fucked by your book?” 

He resumes his pacing around the room, back turned to the detectives as he mutters to himself, head cradled in his hands. If he wasn’t so coked up, maybe he’d have been able to think straight. Flip exchanges a wordless glance with Ray, knowing that they were past the point of no return. His usefulness as an informant had expired, he was in too deep in the panic zone to be of any use. At least for tonight anyway. Johnson stops muttering and turns on his heel to confront the men. It’s not the speed of his actions that worries Flip, but the way his eyes flit momentarily between their faces and the window behind them.

 _Fuck_.

Flip’s hand instinctively grabs at Ray’s shoulder, shoving them both to the ground without thinking. The thud of their bodies against the old wooden floor is drowned out by the sound of the bullet firing through the window behind them, shattering the glass where it scatters across the floor. The detectives crawl to the nearest bit of cover, ducking behind a pool table to catch their breath and register what the hell just happened.

“That motherfucker ambushed us,” Ray hisses, removing his handgun from his holster.

Flip peers out from behind the corner of the table, spies the growing pool of blood on the floor only a few feet away from them. There’s a bullet nestled neatly between Johnson’s eyes; his expression forever frozen in a mask of shock.

“He wasn’t in on this. He’s dead.” His words are hushed.

“ _Fuck_.” Ray curses. “He was right. They’re onto him.”

The sound of boots on broken glass cuts their conversation short as the assailant barges in through the shattered window. Ray cranes his head to the side, makes out at least two sets of footsteps circling the room slowly. He’s grateful for the dimness of the old room, only two aged lamps illuminating either end of the space. The darkness would buy them some time at least, a few seconds to think could make all the difference. He can hear his pulse hammering in his ears, adrenaline coursing through his veins, fighting off the fear and replacing it with sheer energy. He gestures to Flip to approach from the right, while he takes the left.

They try their best to move silently, only able to hear the other men by the sound of glass shards embedded in the soles of their shoes. A bullet fires out and lands in the crumbled brick wall where they had hid only seconds ago, spurting red dust into the darkness. Flip feels his breath catch in his throat at the thought. He peers out from behind his new vantage point, sees a set of boots stood over Johnson’s body. He can’t see the other man from his position, but he prays Ray’s got him covered.

He harnesses the adrenaline and leans out from the beside the table, firing two quick shots in the attacker’s direction. They land square in his chest, the force of the impact sending him stumbling back a step, his finger clutching down on the trigger and emptying the barrel of his gun into the pool table. They chip the old wooden structure, splinters flying around Flip’s head as he ducks to avoid the gunfire. There are screams from the main room next door, the thunder of feet as people dash to leave the building. He prays none of them get caught in the crossfire.

The other gunman turns his eye to Flip’s location, angles the barrel of his gun towards the pool table he’s hidden behind, pressed as close as the floor will allow him in the hope it might offer him safety. Though Ray can barely distinguish what is coming from where over the chorus of gunfire, he chooses that moment to seize his opportunity. To burst up from behind the pool table and silence their attacker for good. It only takes him a second to spot the aggressor, to line his gun up with his head in preparation to put him down.

But it’s a second too long.

The man turns his head to face him, sends out three shots in a panic, the bullets finding a swift home nestled between Ray’s ribs.

“ _Fuck_ , Ray!” Flip is screaming, not even aware of his own volume as he watches his partner stagger backwards, hands clutched at this already bleeding midsection.

He’s scrambling to get himself off the floor, to close the distance between himself and his partner as fast as he can. The attacker doesn’t wait a moment longer to finish the job, darts for the window in a panic as he realises the weight of this situation. It was only ever meant to be Johnson. Killing cops was never the plan. Flip at least has the clarity of mind to empty the rest of his bullets into the escapee, a bullet landing in his thigh as he hoists himself out of the window. He won’t get far on a leg like that.

Flip falls to his knees next to Ray, watches his blonde brow crumple above his eyes as he winces through the pain, cursing to himself. He presses his fingers into the wounds, doing his best to stifle the bleeding, apply pressure. He doesn’t even need to look at the damage, the warmth and volume of blood that covers his hands in seconds lets him know the severity of the situation. He had spent enough time overseas and on operations like this to know how this was going to end. And to know that it wasn’t good.

“We we need to… _shit…_ we need to get you to the car. Now. Call for backup.” He’s mumbling now, the words not even convincing to himself, let alone Ray.

Because even though that realisation is there, pressed right at the front of his mind, he can’t bring himself to even think that this is goodbye. To even process what that means, right here, right now.

“Did he… did he get away?” Ray groans, eyes barely able to open from the pain.

“Yeah, yeah he— out the window. He’s gone.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

The blood is soaking into the cuffs of Flip’s shirt sleeves now, a red stain in Ray’s shirt so large now that he knows it can only be minutes until he’s…

“No. I didn’t— I didn’t see his face.”

“God damn it.” Ray winces again. “So much… for being home by midnight.”

Flip wants to laugh but it comes out closer to a cry, his eyes stinging with the force of trying to hold back tears he isn’t ready to shed, a farewell he’s not prepared for. Ray had been his partner for four years. Everything he’d achieved at the CSPD had been by his side. He’d been at every birthday, every wedding anniversary. Hell, Ray was the closest thing he had to family. And he’s at risk of losing that all now, in a matter of minutes. Ray rasps out a cough so hard it makes his shoulders heave. Flip can see the blood brimming on his lips, staining his teeth.

“She’ll never forgive me for this,” he winces, trying to push himself further up the wall to sit up straight, but failing with a groan. “…you know she always said I’d get myself killed workin’ this damn job.”

“Don’t say that.” Flip breathes, because he’s not ready to hear those words yet.

‘Killed’ didn’t fit in the same sentence as ‘Ray’, as ‘dead’. It just wasn’t right. Ray clasps his fingers around Flip’s forearm, his grip his weak, fingertips red with his own blood.

“Look you gotta, you gotta promise me you’ll look after her when I’m gone…” his voice sounds weaker than the last time he spoke, his blinks longer and longer, as if each one is more effort than the last. “Her and the baby.”

It’s that word alone that starts Ray off, makes his voice waver with emotion, his eyes beginning to dampen at the thought he’d never see his child. Never bring them home from the hospital, see them off on their first day of school, be there at their graduation. He gulps hard, tries to stop his bottom lip from quivering.

“Just… promise me you’ll look out for ‘em, and let ‘em both know how much they meant to me.”

Flip’s own lip is trembling now, his vision blurring with the tears that fill his eyes. He nods stiffly, tears spilling down his cheeks into his beard. He can feel Ray’s grip growing weaker on his arms, his breaths against his hands growing shallower and shallower.

“I promise.” It takes all his energy to form the words.

“Good.” Ray whispers.

His hand falls limp.

*

Flip’s not sure how long he waits in the car outside your home. Sitting, staring into space, trying to piece the words together that could possibly explain the events of the night. His mind had been empty, body running on autopilot for the last few hours since… _it_ happened. He barely even remembers walking into the station, writing his incident report, taking off his blood-stained shirt and filing it in the evidence room. What he does remember, what he doubts he’ll ever forget, is the white sheet they cast over Ray’s body at the scene. He’d seen plenty in his lifetime, but he’d never once stopped to think about how it might feel to see his own loved one encased beneath the cotton.

It takes whatever strength he has left to step out of the car and walk the fifteen steps from the sidewalk to your door. Even raising his knuckles to knock feels like too much to ask, a mammoth task that might drain him entirely. You’re at the door in seconds, door reeling open before he’s mentally prepared to see you. Though it could have been a million years before you’d opened it, he still wouldn’t have been ready.

In a selfish way, he’s grateful that you piece it together yourself.

That your first expression is one of confusion when you see him at your door, and then when you notice there’s no one with him, and that his face is more solemn than you’ve ever seen it, you realise why he must be alone. What it is he’s come to tell you. The day you always feared might come, the words you never wanted to hear. And when that realisation sets in, dawns on you like a million-tonne weight to the chest, it knocks the wind straight out of you. You collapse into him, clench your fists round the denim of his jacket as you bury your face into his chest and cry harder than you’ve ever cried before, harder than you’ve ever needed to.

And it’s not until that moment, until you’re holding onto him so tight that he finally feels _present_ for the first time in hours, that he realises just how much he needs to be held too. He wraps his arms around your shoulders as his own tears begin to fall, his chest heaving up and down out of sync with yours. He’d held it in all those hours at the station, even at the hospital, as he’d confirmed the identity of his body, but now, as he bows his head into your hair, he gives into that gnawing sense of dread that threatened to eat him alive. Lets it consume him entirely.

You’re stood there for what could be seconds, hours, days, wrapped in an embrace of sorrow, the strength of the other person the only thing holding you both up. Though the woe that fills him is the hardest thing he’s ever felt, Flip can’t even begin to fathom how this must feel for you. To lose a soulmate, a lover, a life partner. Flip wasn’t sure he’d ever really known much of love until he’d met the two of you. Perhaps he had not even believed in it. But there was no way for him to deny it’s presence when in your company, seeing how you had made a doting husband out of the most reckless of men. Ray could be a lot of things, but he was always your husband before any of that. You brought out the best in him, coaxed out the good side he rarely ever showed to anyone else. There were plenty of married men at the station, but none of them loved their wives the way Ray had loved you. A framed photo of you sat proud at his desk, another more worn copy pressed to the inside of his wallet. Before dangerous jobs, Ray would take it out and look at it for a few moments. ‘ _To bring me back down to earth_ ,’ he’d said once.

Even on his deathbed, Ray’s only thought had been of you. How to keep you safe, how to protect you from any more pain. Flip wasn’t sure he could ever love anybody like that, to give himself completely and wholly to one person and to know that they would be there no matter what. He can’t help but wonder if things might have been better were he the one to pass tonight. He’d be leaving behind no wife, no unborn child, just his partner and the other guys back at the CSPD. They’d put a plaque on the wall for him perhaps, morn him quietly before life would slowly migrate back to normal. For you, things would never be back to normal. He stops his train of thought before it can get too far, now was not the time to wallow in self-pity. He owed it to Ray to be true to his word, to protect both you and the baby. He couldn’t be half the man Ray was, but he’d make damn sure he tried. Even if the thought that somebody else might need him is the only thing keeping him going.


	2. legacy

You awoke that morning to an empty bed, the same way you have woken every day since. You didn’t even know how many days had passed. They all seemed to blur into one, the anguish dimming your sense of reality. All the events that had once helped you keep track of time had vanished. Ray was no longer awake for work at 7:00am, downstairs at the kitchen table with the morning paper and a cup of coffee. He wasn’t there to meet you for lunch every Tuesday, take you for a burger and fries at the diner you’d first met at all those years ago. You no longer watched the late night shows on TV together, bodies tangled together on the sofa until your eyelids felt heavy. It was as if the days slipped by you completely, morning shifting into night before you’d even had the chance to blink.

Though Ray’s presence still lingered around your home. His clothes for the next day were still lain out over the dresser in your bedroom. His chair at the dinner table still pulled out the way he’d left it that night. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at it for too long, let alone sit in it. It’s those aspects that make you feel as if he were still coming home, bound to return at any moment. And its that feeling that makes the heartache worse.

A knock at the door stirs you from a silence you didn’t know you were sitting in, darkness fallen around you, sounds of a show you’d barely taken in coming from the TV. You try to bring yourself back to the present, whenever that was. You were hardly prepared for visitors. The house had been empty for days, just you alone with your thoughts. The idea of bringing someone else into that space felt strange. You take a deep breath before opening the door, put on your most presentable face, one that didn’t look like the life had been completely drained out of you. You’re not sure who you’re expecting to see behind it, but the sight of Flip surprises you somewhat. The last time he’d knocked at your door was _that_ night. Seeing him there now again brings it all back.

“Hi.” He says gingerly.

He wasn’t a nervous man, not shy either, but he looks it tonight. His eyebrows raise slightly above eyes that regard you cautiously, as if he might have made the wrong decision to visit this evening. The feeling of dread in his stomach only gets worse the longer you stand there, looking at him and saying nothing. 

“It’s Wednesday.” He elaborates when you don’t fill the silence. “I uh… didn’t wanna break the tradition. You know if you’re not feeling up to—"

“No... that’s alright.” The first sign of a smile breaks on your face, changes your stoic expression into something a little more familiar. “Come in.”

There’s a hesitance to both of your actions as you make your way inside. The usual warmth of your home now feels long gone, the house cold and bare in your husband’s absence. You both stand at either sides of the kitchen table, as if unsure how to progress without him. Flip’s eyes can’t help but fall upon the couch in the living room. He’d spent many a time sat on that couch with Ray, a beer in hand, watching game shows in the evenings, sports on the weekends. But now as he gazes upon it all he feels is anguish. Those positive memories seem long gone now, and as he looks upon the worn mustard fabric all he can think of is how hard you’d bawled as he’d told you of Ray’s last words, cried a wet patch into the shoulder of his shirt that he still hadn’t brought himself to wash yet. It was the last thing he’d worn when Ray had been alive. He tries to stop the memory from replaying in his mind.

“I uh… got stuff for mac and cheese.” Flip breaks the silence. “I didn’t know if you had anything in.”

You’re grateful he had the forethought to bring something himself, you’d barely eaten in days. Hadn’t bothered to leave the house to restock the fridge. Normally it would be full to the brim this time of week. It was a rare occasion your kitchen wasn’t beaming with life on a Wednesday night. Ray and Flip would come back from the station together, sit round the table and clink beers while you made dinner. You’d laugh and joke over the meal, make enough racket for a group twice your size. On a good night, Flip would linger around for a few hours after, play some cards maybe, before you settled onto the couch for a night in front of the TV. You’d rest your head on Ray’s shoulder until your eyes felt too heavy to open, let him bid Flip goodnight before carrying you up the stairs. Most nights you were awake for that part, but you let him take you anyway.

“That’s real kind of you Flip, thank you.” You take the plastic bag from his hand, set it on the counter.

He takes off his coat, sets it down on the back of the chair he’d often laid claim to at your dining table. It’s not lost on him that Ray’s chair at the head of the table seems pulled out further that normal, not tucked in neatly like the others. There’s some open mail on the table, documents scattered about at different angles. Though he tries not to read them, the thick print of the funeral directors’ company logo at top right hand of the pages catches his eye. _God_. He hadn’t even thought about arrangements, about the finality of laying his partner to rest once and for all. And if he knew Ray, he wouldn’t have thought ahead to have planned anything either. He couldn’t imagine the stress of trying to plan that all alone. He wanted to help any way he could.

“You need a hand?” He asks, hearing the rustle of the plastic bag as you take some of the ingredients out and place them on the side.

If you were in a better state of mind, you might have laughed, given him a sarcastic comment. He never offered to help, less so out of selfishness rather than the fact he was a god-awful cook. He could cook a mean steak, but aside from that, most of his meals were a strict microwave affair. Instead you simply hide a small smile, offer him the packets of cheese from the bag.

“Sure. The grater’s in the top cupboard, on the left.”

He finds it with ease, sets to work as you fill up a pot with some water, set it on the hob to boil. He’s careful to watch his fingers on the grater, caution borne from a time he’d prepared a meal with his grandmother as a boy. The memory comes back to him now for the first time in years. The only sound for a while is your knife meeting the cheap plastic of a chopping board as you dice some green onion.

“He told you, didn’t he?” Your voice is still soft despite the accusation in your tone.

Flip stops grating for a second, continues as he clenches his jaw, decides whether or not to play dumb to your question. He knew that this topic might arise eventually, that there would come a time when you would tell him of your pregnancy, and he would have to work out whether to feign surprise or admit that he already knew. He must deliberate for too long, because you follow up with a justification.

“I’ve never seen you bring over soda on a Wednesday, it’s always wine.”

You look up from your chopping for the first time, catch the guilt in his expression as he meets your eyes. He purses his lips and gulps before speaking.

“He told me that night. He said you wanted to wait a little before you announced it but… I think he was just too excited.”

There’s a bittersweet smile on your face as you nod, eyebrows crumpling together as you turn back to your chopping, holding back tears. Flip can’t imagine how you must feel, knowing your child would never know their father. He’d had enough of his own struggles to know how important it was to have a present father. Even if Ray could be a little reckless, he knew enough of him to know he’d have been a great dad. The fun type, always getting into trouble, cheering a little too loud at soccer practice. The thought brings a similar bittersweet grin to his face.

“He said you’re having a boy.”

You laugh then, only once, and the action is enough to force the tears out of your eyes. You wipe them with the back of your hand, tuck some hair behind your ear.

“We didn’t know that for sure. I wanted to keep it a surprise. I think he wanted a son though.” You can’t help but smile as you think of it. “His side of the family was mostly boys anyway, his sister was the only girl for generations. She keeps trying for a girl but, she’s got three sons already. I guess he thought it was a family thing.”

“What about your side of the family?” He asks, part out of interest, but mainly because he can see the tension leaving your shoulders the more you talk, as if finally relaxing for the first time in days.

“Well, I don’t have any siblings but most of my cousins are girls, so I don’t know… I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

The water comes to a boil and you empty the macaroni from the bag into the pot, careful to avoid the drops of water that splatter over the edge and onto the surface top. You turn, lean your back against the counter. Your hand reaches for your stomach absent-mindedly, rubs a circle on the bump that had barely started to form. The last few days your mind had been on anything but the life growing inside you, instead focusing on the life that had been taken from you. Thinking about it now reminds you you’re not alone, and that knowledge is both a blessing and a worry in the back of your mind.

When the meal is done you dish it up onto plates for the two of you. There’s a sizeable amount left, the portion that would normally be saved for Ray staring you back in the face as you cover the dish with foil to keep it warm. Flip sits across from you as normal, Ray’s empty chair at the head of the table making the setting a little less comfortable than you’re used to. Flip remarks once or twice how good your cooking is, as always, though you eat mostly in silence. You find that though you both try, there are few topics of conversation that don’t circle back to Ray. After a while, you stop trying to avoid it, push around the last few pieces of macaroni on your plate absent-mindedly with your fork as you try to get the words you know you need to say to come out of your mouth.

“You know, he…” You pause, allow yourself a moment to swallow the lump that’s rising in your throat. “…He would have wanted you to do the eulogy.”

Flip stops chewing the food in his mouth, his jaw slack upon hearing your words. If he’d given any rational thought to the ceremony, he would have come to the same conclusion. But he hadn’t. Not even close. Hearing those words from your mouth makes that clear. He senses your eyes on him, looks down at his plate, chews slowly on the food left in his mouth to buy himself time for a response. It’s not that he wouldn’t do it, or that he didn’t want to, but more that he simply didn’t know if he _could_. He hadn’t even said Ray’s name out loud since he’d been gone. To stand on a podium in front of countless people and recall the strength of his character and attitude to life would have been a challenge to say in the least.

He’d spent so much time thinking about tracking down the guy who’d killed Ray, he had barely confronted the reality that he was gone at all. He’d gone straight back into the station the morning after, at his desk bright and early chasing leads, flipping through known associates of Johnson and trying to match them to the vague description that existed in his memory. It wasn’t until Chief Bridges had invited him into his office that it occurred to him to take time off. And even then, it hadn’t come as a welcome suggestion. He’d practically been banished from the station, doomed to grieve in the confines of his home, helpless to the search of getting justice for Ray.

The frustration at that helplessness had been enough to ward off the sadness for a while, but it had come for him eventually. Waited patiently to consume him entirely. Much like you, the world had passed him by in a blur, time warping and changing around him without his knowledge or attention. His only indication of its passage was the amount of whiskey left in his glass, the growth of abandoned bottles that littered his kitchen, overflowed from the trash can. He had learned the hard way that alcohol didn’t numb the pain, but simply brought it to the surface. He’d allowed himself to cry, _really_ cry, for the first time in years. Allowed his back to slump against the walls of his home, knees hunched to his chest, as if that might shield him from the pain within.

And worst of all, that voice inside him – the one that told him it was all his fault, that it would have been better if he had died, that no one would miss him if he was gone, had only got louder. Its venom twisting into his thoughts, clouding his mind of sane judgement. The only thing that brings him out of that hole, stops him from surrendering to that thought entirely, is the promise he made to Ray. To be there for you no matter what. And it’s the glimmering hope hidden within that promise – the chance to do right by Ray now he was gone, that keeps him going. If he couldn’t be strong for himself, he could at least do it for Ray, for you.

“I’m not sure I’d even know where to start,” he says finally, after what feels like an age. “But it’d be an honour.”

He offers you a half smile, hopes it looks more confident than he feels.

“You know… sometimes I used to think you knew him better than anybody… better than me. Like you two were the married couple and I was his partner instead.” The faraway smile on your face lets him know you’re not there in the moment with him, but reminiscing instead.

You had a running joke about it with Ray. The man he so often seemed to be in the company of, on days-long stakeouts while you waited for him at home alone. Sometimes, when he’d get called back to the station late at night or on the weekends, you’d joke that he was ‘off to see his boyfriend’. His response would always be the same, a huffed laugh while he told you ‘ _I’m not his type_.’ There’s a similar laugh from Flip now as he sits across from you, tries to focus more on the memory of the friendship rather than the absence of it.

“We used to bicker like a damn couple, I know that much.” Flip tries to keep the woe from his voice, to cling to the smile while it’s still on his lips. “He used to say you got to see the best of him and I got the rest.”

A tear rolls down your cheek at his words, you wipe it away with your fingers, feel it seep into your skin as you do. You knew your husband could be a difficult man. He was stubborn as a mule. Once he’d set his mind on something, there was no talking him out of it. On one of your first ever dates, he’d planned a picnic to a local park a few miles from your work, spent days fussing over mason jars and blankets. You remember peaking through the curtains of your bedroom at the grey sky the night before, asking him over the phone if he was sure you shouldn’t reschedule. He’d told you not to worry, that everything would be fine. And though you’d had doubts, the charm of his voice put you at ease.

And he’d been right – for about twenty minutes. Still to this day, you’d never seen the heaven’s open in such a way. By the time you’d reached his truck, your clothes were stuck to your skin, freshly done hair slicked against your scalp, hours in front of the mirror wasted. Though when you’d wrapped that blanket around your shoulders, cosied together in the worn leather seats of his truck, soggy sandwiches abandoned on the dashboard, the rain hardly seemed to matter. You’d shared your first kiss right there in that truck, with the truck’s heater rattling in the background, your skin still damp from outside. That afternoon was still one of the best dates you’d ever had.

“You know I’m glad… I’m glad it was you he was with when—" you daren’t finish the sentence, try and swallow the lump rising in your throat. “He really loved you like a brother, so I’m – I’m glad it was you.”

Flip’s jaw tightens as he wrestles with the emotion rising inside him, threatening to surface at any second. He hadn’t spared a moment to think of it that way – that perhaps instead of failing his closest friend, he’d been there for him in his darkest his moment. Supported him through this life and into the next. You must sense how your comment affects him so, because you reach across the table to squeeze his hand, hold his calloused palms in your own. And though he doesn’t meet your eyes, you feel him squeeze back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really loved writing this chapter and exploring into how both flip and reader are coping in the aftermath of ray's death. i know it's still early days but i'm so attached to this fic and this story already and i'm really enjoying sharing it with you. as always let me know what you think in the comments! ♡


	3. farewell

Though you had spent weeks arranging flowers, sending invites and staring at the calendar that hung in your kitchen watching the ceremony date grow closer and closer, nothing had quite prepared you for the feeling of waking up that morning. You were grateful your mother had the kind heart to stay the night, to wake early to make breakfast and prepare the house for the guests that would be arriving in a matter of hours. You weren’t sure you would have had the willpower to get out of bed without her.

As if reminding you of the day that was to come, your outfit stares you in the face as it hangs from the wardrobe door: a long-sleeved, black chiffon dress. You’d worn something similar to a funeral a few years back, for one of Ray’s distant uncles. You’d stood in the same spot as you were now when you’d first tried it on, eyed yourself in the mirror. Ray appeared behind you and rested his chin on your shoulder, his hands on your thighs.

“You look real sexy in this,” he’d crooned, lips pressed into your neck, eyes watching you as his hands had circled over your body.

“It’s not meant to be sexy.” You’d said, trying hard not to give into his touches as you removed his hands from your body, shied away from his kisses. “It’s _meant_ to be formal. It’s a funeral Ray.”

“Honey, ain’t a damn thing you can wear you won’t look good in. Besides, Uncle Mitch would’ve agreed with me.” He’d winked, given your ass a light slap as he’d made his way into the en suite to fix his tie.

That memory feels a million miles away as you stand alone in your bedroom, the gravity of the occasion weighing heavy on your shoulders. Were he there with you now he’d know just what to say to ease the all-consuming dread that filled you, to instil you with enough confidence to face the day. What a paradox that your husband was the only person who knew you well enough to counsel you through grief, and yet it was him you were grieving. He’d have probably laughed at that, in an ironic kind of way. You don’t share the amusement.

The doorbell rings downstairs muffled sounds of sombre conversation drifting upstairs as your mother opens the door to the guests. You can’t tell who it is yet, but it doesn’t matter. You didn’t have the strength to face a single soul. The thought of talking to countless people unsettled you almost as much as the thought of laying your love to rest. They would no doubt flock to you before and after the ceremony, offering condolences you weren’t ready to hear, pity you couldn’t bare to feel. They would have to take your silence as acceptance, you could offer them nothing more.

You pull your dress on in silence, the smooth chiffon fabric sliding against your skin. It occurs to you then, for the first time in years you were without Ray to zip the garment up from the back. The thought brings a small sob from your throat, but you hold it in the best you can. If you started now, you’d never stop. You stretch your arms behind you in the mirror, manage the zip with only minor difficulty. Once done, you look at the dress in the mirror. The boat neck offers a glimpse of collarbone, ruched shoulders leading down to long sleeves while the hem brushed your knee. It was a nice dress you had to admit. If Ray was there, he’d have loved it. You try not to dwell too long on the thought, you’d have all day to be reminded of his absence.

Though your stomach had not yet begun to bulge with noticeable indication of your pregnancy, you still neglect to cinch the dress with the accompanying belt for fear someone might suspect you were with child. Of course, there would come a time when you would announce it to the world, but now seemed like a cruel occasion. The reflection that stares back at you in the mirror does not feel like you at all. You barely recognise the woman in front of you. The healthy glow of your skin is all but gone, a washed-out complexion taking its place. Your usual full curls are pulled back into a tight bun, a single strand fallen loose that hangs down over your eye. You sweep it back behind your ear. Earlier this morning you had sat at the bedroom dresser while your mother fashioned it into a style the same way she had when you were a girl. The sensation of her smooth fingers against your scalp had perhaps been the only peace you had known this morning. 

The doorbell chimes again, reminding you that you were not alone in your grief. A multitude of guests would be joining you in sharing the burden of that pain today. Thinking of it in that way at least, gives you enough courage to make it down the stairs. A few guests mill around your living room, some settled on your sofa, others admiring the photos of yourself on Ray on the walls. Their black-clad clothing is a sharp contrast against the warm tones of your home. Your foot has barely graced the bottom step of the stairs before you’re greeted, the familiar face of Ray’s older sister Dolores appearing before you. Her eyes are puffy and red, a well-used handkerchief clutched between her fingers. There’s a moment of silence between the two of you, neither sure what to say to the other until she pulls you into a tight embrace, hands clutching around your shoulders. You find it in yourself to hug back, cherish this moment of fleeting closeness between the two of you.

“You know it – it didn’t really feel real until I saw all of this… It’s just so…” she begins, barely able to finish the sentence without tearing up as she pulls away from you.

“Final.” You say softly.

She raises her handkerchief to her nose, reaches forward to hold your hand in her own.

“Y’know he… he really did love you, so much.” She sniffles.

Were this not the day of your husband’s funeral, you might have scoffed at her words. Laughed even. She despised you when you’d first begun dating Ray. Called you every name under the sun both to your face and behind your back. Even after six years of marriage, it was still doubtful to you whether she’d accepted you as her sister-in-law.

“I know.” You smile.

She leaves then, returns to her three boys sat on the sofa who fidget in their smart suits. As you make your way into the kitchen you notice small plates of food laid on the table, various sandwiches and small bites neatly arranged for the guests to pick from. Your mother must have put them together this morning. The kindness of the small action is almost enough to set you off crying. A soft, wrinkled hand knits into your own and you look down to find your father next to you, his kind eyes staring up into you from his seated position.

“Always been a great hostess, your Ma.”

“She has.”

His wrinkled thumb runs over the back of your palm, senses the emotion rising within you.

“Don’t worry baby, you got everybody here to support you.”

Your brows crumple above your eyes at the comment, lip beginning to quiver. He squeezes around your hand. The chime of the doorbell is a welcome distraction, pulls you out of the moment before it can overwhelm you. A tall whisp of dark hair catches your eye through the frosted glass as you open the door to the newest guest. Your own sadness is reflected back in Flip’s expression as you meet his dark eyes, offer him the closest thing you can to a smile. He looks smarter than you’ve ever seen him before, free of the bootcut jeans and checked shirts he so often seemed to frequent. The dark suit that clings to his shape only seems to accentuate his size, make his shoulders seem ever broader and his chest all the wider as he stoops in your doorway. His raven hair is neatly set down with wax, beard freshly-trimmed and shaped around his mouth and chin. You find your eyes being drawn to the bouquet of freshly bloomed white lilies in his hand. There’s a single matching flower pinned to his suit.

“Morning,” his voice is soft, quiet. “I brought these… for the house.”

He hands them to you sheepishly, watches the way your eyes fall to admire them as you take them into your hands. You must have had a dozen bouquets sent to the house, and no doubt you’d have a dozen more before the end of today, but something about this one feels special. The string tying the flowers together is a burnt orange, Ray’s favourite colour. The first genuine smile of the morning spreads across your face.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

Flip follows you into the kitchen, watches as you tenderly place them in a vase and set them down on the kitchen window sill. Even though you’d had plenty of parties in your home with countless more people than fill it today, something about the space feels crowded. It occurs to Flip then, and only then, that he’s the only non-family member in your home. Ray had always been family in his eyes, but he sees now that Ray had family enough of his own. He sticks a finger under the collar of his shirt, pulls it from his neck in attempt to stop the suffocating feeling rising in his chest.

“You alright?” You ask, grateful to not be on the receiving end of that question for the first time today.

He looks about as nervous as you’ve ever seen him. You can tell from the hint of smoke that clings to his clothes that he must have been chain-smoking on the drive over. The same way he did when he was always nervous, or so you’d heard from Ray.

“Yeah… yeah.” He answers, reaching to run his hand through his hair but stopping once he remembers how long it had taken him to get it neat this morning. “I’m just no good with these things, that’s all.”

“Who is?”

Your response reassures him somewhat. He had to admire your composure. He could barely keep his agitation from showing and yet you seemed to be managing just fine. The redness around your eyes isn’t lost on him, though to him it’s a miracle you’re even able to function. When he’d woken up that morning he’d felt so sick to his stomach he was sure he wouldn’t even be able to get out of bed, never mind make it through the day. The thought of the eulogy has sweat beading at the back of his neck.

“You know I can’t help but think he’d have hated all this… all the crying, the sadness.” The words are almost a whisper from your mouth.

The thought had been on your mind for a few days now. Ray had never been one for wallowing in any kind of sadness. He could turn even the worst of scenarios around. Though even with the knowledge he wouldn’t want you to be sad, you still can’t bring yourself to feel anything else. Had he the forethought to plan a funeral, you were sure it would have been a somehow joyous event. Filled with things to make you smile. You wished he’d left a little bit of that outlook on life with you instead of taking all the positivity with him.

“He would’ve.” Flip sighs, takes a sip on the glass of water you gave him. “If it was down to him there’d be a crate of beer open already.”

The sound of your laugh surprises him, something about the imagery and deadpan delivery of his comment catching you off guard. The brief flicker of joy across your face makes him feel calmer, allows his shoulders to ease beneath his suit jacket.

“You’re right.” You gather yourself. “He’d probably think this whole thing was a crock of shit.”

The utter of one of Ray’s signature phrases has you both laughing then, attempting to keep your amusement hushed in the corner of the kitchen. It seemed a weird thing, to be laughing the day of a funeral. Your husband’s funeral no doubt. But it didn’t feel wrong. In fact, it might have been the only thing about the day that felt right. To be remembering Ray how he wanted to be remembered, with the only other person who knew him even half as well as you did. 

*

Though you had done a stellar job of holding yourself together all morning, it all comes apart once the heeled bottoms of your shoes are clicking down the aisle of the church, following behind Ray’s coffin, the strong wooden structure held up by six of his closest colleagues at the station. A precession of fellow mourners follow behind you, a black mass of people slowly spreading out across the pews. Only when you’re settled at the front, your mother on one side and Flip on the other, do you glance back behind you. The church is damn near full. The sight of it makes you smile, thinking of all the hearts Ray had touched throughout his life as well as your own.

The crimson and blue hues of the flag draped across the coffin offer a sharp contrast to the light colour of the wood. A framed photo of Ray stands atop it, a snapshot you’d taken of him for his 30th birthday, the one where he’d end up passed out on the couch and Flip had to carry him to your bedroom. He’s wearing your favourite shirt of his, the deep purple one with the vertical stripes. His hair is shorter than he’d worn it in his last few years, tawny blonde sideburns framing either side of his face, and that ever-winning smile you’d always loved angled towards the camera. He’d always loved that photo of himself. He’d be proud to be remembered like that.

“We are gathered here today to commemorate the life of Raymond Matthew Landy,” the priest announces, his voice seeming to echo around the walls of the building.

You press the handkerchief in your hand to your mouth to stifle the choked sob in your throat. Your mother’s hand wraps around your own, holds it tightly while yours start to shake. The sermon feels like background noise to the sound of sobs coming from the front row, both you and Ray’s sister already having begun to weep. Flip keeps his head bowed from beside you, chews down on the inside of his lip and clenches his jaw to keep the tears within him. The row to his right is full of his other colleagues from the station, each of them fighting back similar emotion. When it comes to the hymns, he can barely open his mouth for fear of collapsing entirely, for the wall he’s built up so high to finally crumble. The sermon begins to feel like background noise as it approaches his turn to talk, his stomach a mixture of nerves, dread and guilt. His hands fiddle with the lining in his tie for something to distract him.

When the priest calls on him to finally make his speech, he feels as if his heart stops entirely. The walk from his pew to the lectern feels like a mile, the few seconds it takes for him to take the crumpled note out of his jacket pocket passing like hours. He takes a hard gulp, tries to summon the courage to speak the words written before him. He makes the fatal mistake of looking up to the crowd, seeing how many people are sat waiting on his every word. Though out of all of them, his eyes fall to you. While the other faces look to him expectantly, your expression is calm, trusting. You offer him a single nod, encourage him to do what you knew he was capable of, tears spilling from your lashes to your cheeks as you do so. Just that look gives him the confidence he needs.

“Somebody once told me that grief is the price you have to pay for love,” the emotion is clear in his tone, his low, uneven voice wavering over the words. “But that was a price worth paying to know someone as special as Raymond Landy.”

He lets that sentence hang in the air as he clears his throat, takes a deep breath before continuing. His confidence seems to grow as he talks, voice becoming stronger, reverberating around the walls of the building as he tells of Ray’s life. He barely looks at the speech he’d spent so long neatly preparing because everything he’s saying is coming straight from the heart. It’s only now that he realises it wasn’t hard to talk about how great of a man Ray was. He could do that every damn day. The hard part was remembering that he was gone. Though he manages to talk around that with more ease than he expected, feels the pent-up emotion he’d spent so long sealing off flowing out of him with every word.

His speech hits all the right notes. Some of his words have you snivelling into your handkerchief, others have you wiping away tears of joy. The sound of the congregation laughing in unison makes you feel warm inside, makes you think Ray would be proud of his remembrance. You try to cling to that feeling as Flip wraps up his speech, finally lets a single tear roll down his cheek as he places his paper back inside his suit jacket. Only when he’s back in his seat does he realise how much he had needed that. To speak openly about Ray’s life and his death, instead of pretending the latter had never happened. He lets out a huge sigh, feels some of the weight of the day leave his body as he does so. You reach across and hold his hand in yours, squeeze it in a way that lets him know you’re thankful without having to say a word.

*

It’s well into the evening by the time the wake has drawn to a close, yourself, your mother and Ray’s sister emptying the leftovers of the food into plastic bags and cleaning up the venue of the social club. You and Ray had celebrated every big birthday here ever since you’d been together, even had your wedding reception in the same hall. A photo of him hung on the wall from a pool tournament he’d won here years ago, his name engraved in a gold plaque at it’s base. Though today had been your first time visiting without him, his presence had been all around you.

Ray’s sister pulls you into a tight hug as she bids you goodbye, her husband offering you a distant wave and each of her three boys coming up to hug you in turn, their arms reaching around your stomach. She leaves only your parents and Flip in the venue with you, allowing you a final chance to breathe. Though the wake had been full of music, food and even some dancing, you were grateful to say goodbye to the guests. To allow yourself a moment to finally stop worrying about what other people might think.

“You gave him a beautiful send off sweetheart, he would have been so proud.” Your mother croons, pressing a kiss to your forehead and wrapping her arms around your shoulders.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” You say into her shoulder, feeling her hands rubbing circles into your back like she had when you were young.

“If need anything, even if you think its somethin’ small, me and your pops are just on the other end of the phone, alright honey? You don’t have to do this alone.”

She breaks the hug to look you in the eyes, her dark brown eyes staring back at you lovingly. You nod, lean into her palm as she rubs it against your cheek. You lean down to hug your father from his wheelchair, bid him goodnight before the two of them make their way outside. The ride home with Flip is filled mostly with a comfortable silence, some talk of the day passing between you. When he pulls up on the sidewalk outside your home, you cast a glance to the house, think of how this morning it had been so full and now it would be empty.

“Do you mind coming in for a while? For a drink or something? I’m… not so sure I’m ready for today to be over just yet.”

Your voice needn’t be unsure, because Flip unbuckles his seatbelt without so much as a complaint, follows you inside and into the kitchen without comment. In truth, he’d been feeling something similar for half the drive. He’d hated every day leading up to the funeral, but now it was done everything seemed so… _final_. As if after today, there would be no more space to mourn Ray, and everyone would expect things to go back to normal.

You abandon your heels on the floor, curl your feet beneath you as you sit on the couch, prop your head up with your arm as it rests on the chair. Flip sits on the armchair to your right, unbuttons his shirt collar and loosens his tie around his neck before taking a sip of the glass of water you poured for him. Even now, after hours of looking at him in the same clothes, you still can’t quite get used to how different he looks.

“He would have been really proud of you, you know.” You tell him.

Flip was the closest thing Ray had to a brother, and he’d loved him enough to make up for the lack of relation between them. There was no success that Ray wanted if it didn’t come with Flip’s name attached. He’d have beamed to see how well Flip had stepped up today, the kind words he’d shed on his partners memory.

“The eulogy today was beautiful, I… I can’t thank you enough.”

He looks up from his glass to you, and you can see there’s the slightest hint of moisture to his eyes, though he doesn’t let the tears fall. Hearing those words mean the world to him. His voice is soft and wavering when he next speaks. Unlike earlier, he doesn’t feel the need to pretend the emotion isn’t there.

“It’s the least I owe him after… _everything_.” He runs his hand through his hair, the strands less stiff now than they had been this morning when they were freshly waxed. “The station won’t be the same without him.”

You’d heard those words from almost every single one of Ray’s colleagues today, even the less savoury officers you’d grown to dislike over the years. The Chief himself had told you what an incredible man your husband had been, how dearly he’d be missed by the entirety of the force. They were putting a plaque up in the Narcotics Department to honour his name. You weren’t sure if you’d ever have the strength to go and see it in person.

“I… won’t be the same without him.” Flip admits, his voice is barely a whisper.

He seems surprised by the honesty of his own words, as if they’d come out of his mouth without asking permission. He’s not sure whether it’s the late hour, the emotion of the day, or something about your presence that makes him comfortable enough to admit such a thing. Something he’d never dare say to anyone else other than Ray. When you meet his eyes, there’s a wistful expression on your face that tells him you know exactly what he means.

“Me either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a sad chapter but i wanted everything about the funeral to feel just right. i love the way this turned out and i'm excited to start exploring how the relationship between reader and flip begins to develop in the aftermath of ray's passing in the next few chapters. hope to see you all again soon ♡


	4. understudy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW// brief mention of previous miscarriage

Flip gathers your tableware and walks the few strides to the sink where he rolls up his sleeves to begin washing the remainder of casserole from the plates. It was something of an unspoken rule now, that he would clear up after you ate. You didn’t mind. Most evenings the simple act of cooking a meal felt like a chore in itself. In truth, you were grateful for the help. Pleased he felt comfortable enough to do such a thing without needing to ask. The tap running in the background is the only sound in your home, accented by the clinking of cutlery against each other in the basin. 

“You seem quiet tonight,” Flip remarks, his back to you as he speaks. “Something on your mind?”

You’re grateful he can’t see the shift in your facial expression, the way your hands absent-mindedly fall to the bump at your stomach. Had your apprehension been that obvious? You thought you’d done a fair job of hiding it. Perhaps he knew you better than you thought. Your fingers trace the roundness of your stomach. The bump was large enough now that you had stopped wearing tight-fitting shirts when you left the house. You wondered how much longer you would be able to manage without admitting your condition to Ray’s side of the family, dredging up the pain of his passing now the dust had just begun to settle. When you don’t answer his question, Flip glances at you over his shoulder, dark brows pulling together in concern.

“I have a scan at the hospital tomorrow.”

Flip dries his hands on the cloth on the countertop, comes back to the table to resume his position across from you. Though you can feel the sorrow in his stare, you don’t meet his eyes.

“We… _I_ waited to so long for this, and now to know it’s all happening without him is just—” you press your knuckles to your lips as if to stop them from trembling, supress the sob you feel rising. “…it’s a lot.”

Once the words start spilling from your mouth, they don’t stop coming. All the worries you’d held in for so long spilling right out of the floodgates.

“You know when we first got married all anyone would talk about was starting a family. It was all I could think about. A few months after our honeymoon I found out I was pregnant and… it just felt like everything was falling into place.” You fiddle with the sleeve of your shirt, fingers seeming to work without knowledge of your mind. “And then one day it just… ended. I was going to be a Mom and then I wasn’t.”

It takes you a few moments to get talking again. Flip doesn’t say a word. Partially because he doesn’t know what there is to say, but mainly because he can tell from the way you speak that this is the first time you’ve ever told this story out loud. He’s right. Anyone who knew was there when it happened. You’d never needed to retell it to anybody. There are tears running down your soft cheeks now, but you don’t seem to notice them.

“Ray uh, Ray wanted to try again straight away but I… I couldn’t. I needed time.”

The memory of that period of your marriage is tough. It was the only time the two of you had ever been at odds with each other, been anything other than entirely in sync. To this day you were still sure it would have broken any other couple. Would have torn apart anyone else that wasn’t the two of you.

“That was when he bought me the salon. I think he… I think he knew I needed something to pour all my energy into. Something to nurture. He took some time off work and we spent a month fixing that place up, he built everything in there himself. Even wired up all the dryers.”

That bittersweet smile Flip has come to know so well is back on your face again, and he finds himself smiling with you, even if it’s only for a moment. Looking back, fixing up that salon might have been what saved you both. Made you realise how good the two of you were when you worked together. The first few months had been slow, just you and another girl you’d met in beauty school keeping the place going. But Ray had been there every step of the way. He was your biggest supporter. He’d even managed to get the wives of the other cops at the station to pay you a visit. The place had become your pride and joy over the years. You had eight girls working there with you now, and enough funds left over to pay another two through beauty school the same way Ray had with you when you’d first met.

“He was good like that.” Flip smiles.

“He was.” You agree with a sniff. “I guess… the thought of not having him here now to make everything alright still feels wrong.”

“Just because he’s not here doesn’t mean everything’s not gonna be alright.”

You meet his eyes for the first time then, relieved to see an expression there that’s understanding rather than pitiful. You were grateful for his company. He was an attentive listener. And an even wiser speaker. His eyebrows raise slightly just above his dark eyes, as if to try and impart some of the optimism of his words onto you. It must be working, because you supress the urge to respond ‘ _I’ll believe it when I see it_.’ Instead, you just smile and nod, wipe the dried tears from your face in attempt to move past the emotional part of the conversation.

It’s not until later in the evening, when he’s grabbing his coat from the peg near the door and pulling the denim over his shoulders, that you realise just how much you’d needed that conversation. To share the load that weighed heavy on your shoulders instead of carrying it all on your own. And it’s not until he pauses in the doorway to your home, shifting from foot to foot nervously like he had that first night that he came over, that you realise just how much of that weight he’s willing to take on himself.

“You know if you uh, if you need a ride to the hospital tomorrow… I can take you.”

There’s that same softness in his eyes as they regard you, a gentleness to them that you were sure didn’t exist before you had begun to know him in this way. To reintroduce yourself almost. He’s sure it’s a silly question to ask. Maybe you already have a ride sorted. Or you’d be attending the appointment with your Mother. He didn’t know, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“Are you sure? It won’t be a problem with work or—”

“Don’t worry about that.” He dismisses quickly. “If you want me to go with you, I can be there.”

The firmness of his response shouldn’t surprise you, he’d always been dependable, but something about it still does. Makes you realise just how serious he’d been when he made that promise to Ray.

“Alright well, my appointments at 2.30pm. If you’re sure you don’t mind.” You can’t quite match the confidence in his tone, still worried you might be asking too much.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at two.” He smiles, and then he’s walking down your drive and into the night towards his car without another word.

Always a man of his word, he’s outside your door at two o’clock on the dot. He seems more spritely today you notice, more talkative than his usual evening self. You wonder how it was he managed to slip away from work, what he’d told the Chief. If he’d told him anything at all. He was yet to be put back on active duty at the station, doomed to work from his desk for the mean time. Perhaps he’d just slipped away without anyone noticing. He drives with one hand firmly on the wheel, the other dangling out the car window. The radio provides a faint backdrop to your conversation, wind from the window wisping strands of your hair gently around your face. Something about the feeling being in the passenger seat of his car feels different than his dinnertime visits, as if your new found friendship only applied within the confines of your own home.

“So is this the one where you’ll be finding out what colour to paint the baby’s room, or you still wanting to keep it a surprise?” Flip asks with a smirk on his face.

He catches your smile from the corner of his eye. He had to admit, he didn’t know the first thing about pregnancy beyond how it came to be, and he’d tried his whole adult life to keep it that way. He wasn’t even sure how far along you were. Today was the first time he’d even noticed you looking any bigger, from the way the stripes on your shirt bend slightly around your bump.

“I’m still holding out for a surprise.” You smile.

Ray loved surprises. Flip takes the exit for the hospital, begins to circle the car park in search of a suitable space. Only when the car is parked and he’s reaching for his seatbelt do you realise he intends to come into the hospital with you. You try not to look too shocked as he unbuckles the belt and steps out of the car. You hadn’t thought too much about the implications of him physically accompanying you to the appointment, of how it might look if you walked into the room side by side. How the _two of you_ might look. By the time you reach the waiting room, couples scattered amongst the seats, it’s all you can think about. The same thought dawns on Flip at a similar time as he eyes the other occupants of the waiting room, women in various stages of pregnancy with their husbands by their side.

“I uh, think I saw a vending machine back there. I’m gonna grab a soda, you want anything?” He blurts, stopping just short of the seats.

You shake your head. “No thanks.”

You sigh in relief as he backs out of the waiting room, retraces his steps back down the hall. Conscious of the company you had chosen to keep, you look around the room, as if you might have been spied by someone you knew who would get the wrong idea. You find no familiar faces, to your relief. You should have just told him to wait in the car. Better yet, called a cab instead. You’d have had to sacrifice the calming nature of Flip’s casual conversation on the way over here, but perhaps that would have been a worthwhile exchange to save the panic you felt now. The creeping shame.

Flip rifles through his wallet, finds a few spare coins for a soda and a pack of gum. He places a strip between his lips, hopes the working of his jaw will ease the uneasy feeling in his stomach. Why the hell did it matter anyway? He didn’t know a soul in that room. The thoughts of strangers had never bothered him before, but the idea that foreign eyes might see the two of you as… That did bother him. It felt different. Wrong. He tries not to make a big deal out of it upon returning to the waiting room, reminding himself he was here for you. His feelings didn’t come into the equation.

Still, he takes the safe choice and sits on the chair directly opposite you, not wanting to make the situation feel any more awkward than it is. You avoid his eyes for the most part, and he wonders if you’re annoyed at him, regretting the decision to accept his company. He watches your foot tap against the shiny floor, your fingers play with the clasp on your handbag. It’s not dissimilar to how you’d looked last night, before you’d had the courage to tell him what it was that was bothering you.

“You’ll be fine in there. It’s gonna be alright. You’ll be out in no time.” His words are quiet enough that only you can hear them.

You don’t meet his eyes, but he watches the frown that had worked its way into your brow soften slightly at the reassurance of his words. You still hadn’t quite put your finger on what it was about him that soothed you, emptied your mind of anxiety with even the simplest of words, but you were grateful for it. In truth, he wasn’t sure how he did it either. How he could tell you exactly what you needed to hear when he too shared your worries. But it worked, and that’s what mattered.

“You want me to come in?” He asks expectantly when your name is called and you rise to a stand in front of him.

“I’ll be alright. I’ll be out in no time.” You smile, parroting his own words back at him.

He huffs amusedly. “Well, I’ll be right here.”

His words are a reminder that you didn’t have to do this alone. And though they aren’t from the person you had hoped would be here to share this with you, they’re enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a shorter chapter this time but this is an important one as it shows the dynamic between reader and flip slowly starting to change into something a little more tender. looking forward to growing and shaping their bond in the next few chapters :)

**Author's Note:**

> so i'm back again with another angsty slow-build flip x reader fic! been thinking this one up for a while and i've really grown to love the plot and the story and plan on taking my time to make sure it's told exactly the way i want it. i've also finally left college and grad school and now have a full-time job so trying to juggle writing alongside that but hope you guys enjoy this fic and look forward to you coming on this emotional rollercoaster with me :) let me know what you think in the comments!


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